


The Miracle of a Sunrise

by Minxie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Warning: PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war may be over, but Harry's real battle has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miracle of a Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> **Prereaders:** @aislinntlc, @leela_cat, and @shinyredrain. Thank you, bbs, for everything. Including going along with my fandom manic brain and all of the places it takes us.  
>  **AN:** Takes a left turn after the final battle and marches on from there.

The nightmares start seven weeks after the final battle; six weeks after the last funeral, ten days after the last trial. Just when Harry believes he might actually have a turn at a normal life, he's plagued with dreams so realistic he jerks awake choking on the taste of death and destruction. He slips his wand from beneath his pillow, a curse forming on his lips, and, heart pounding a heavy beat against his ribs, he scans the room, prepared for the threat that tormented his sleep.

Finally the huff of Ron's breathing filters through the haze and Harry remembers where he is. The Burrow. He's safe at the Burrow.

It doesn't help with the dread creeping up his spine at all.

The clammy film of a cold sweat covers his skin and he _knows_ there is a danger lurking in the shadows. He just can't see it. Yet. He can't see it _yet_.

Long minutes tick off the clock before he gives up on the idea of sleep. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, his mind keeps recreating the war, changing who dies and who lives. He can't escape it, not while he's lying in bed, vulnerable to a surprise attack.

Tugging the blanket off of the bed, he makes his way quietly down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step near the bottom, and out to the tiny stoop off the backdoor.

Wand in hand, he sits and stares across the field for hours, watching as the inky night sky bleeds into the purple hues of dawn and the sun breaks the horizon with streaks of yellow and orange.

§

"You were up early this morning, Harry."

Harry looks up from his dinner and forces a smile. "Just wanted to see the sunrise, Mr. Weasley." He cuts a glance at Hermione and then looks away quickly. She has that look in her eyes, the one she gets when she's sussing out the truth of the matter. "Something Hermione insisted we do a couple of times while we were camping."

Camping. What an understatement. Running for their life is more accurate.

Taking a sip of water, Hermione cants her head to the side. "I didn't know you enjoyed watching the sunrise with me."

"Well, I didn't have to worry about Snatchers this morning, yeah." Just the rogue Death Eater and Dark Lord chasing him through his dreams, he thinks. Pushing the thought away, Harry rolls his shoulders in a short shrug. "Thought maybe that'd make it more enjoyable."

"Did it?"

"Not really," Harry replies, grimacing. It might have done if he hadn't been replaying the final battle over and over and _over_. He shakes his head, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He really doesn't want to start thinking about it again. "But it was okay."

"Sunrise happens too early," Ron says, nodding his head. "Easier just to watch it set at night."

Harry releases a sigh of relief when Hermione turns her attention to Ron. He might be able to dodge Mr. Weasley successfully, but Hermione Granger is another matter entirely.

§

Harry watches the sunrise every morning for the next ten days in a row.

And for the seven following them.

§

Staring at his reflection, Harry winces. The dark circles beneath his eyes tell a story he'd rather keep to himself. Sleep has become elusive, something that he remembers but can no longer claim as his own. A night with more than two hours of the much sought after rest is welcomed, considered a boon.

Instead of the precious sleep, his nights are filled with death. Sirius falling through the Veil. Dumbledore tumbling out of the Astronomy tower. 

Snape, his neck open and bloody from Nagini's fangs. Dobby, the silver blade of Bellatrix's knife glinting sharp and bright.

Fred. Tonks. Remus. That annoying little Creevey kid.

He's relived all of their deaths and, his dreams mirroring the reality, has failed to save any one of them.

It's his penance, he supposes. The price he has to pay for failing so spectacularly during the war. 

Grabbing his packed rucksack, Harry heads downstairs.

"Are you leaving, Harry?"

Dropping the rucksack by the door, Harry nods. "I think it's time, Mrs. Weasley."

Molly's brow wrinkles with a frown. "You know you don't have to."

He might not have to, but he definitely needs to. If for no other reason than to try and escape the guilt and shame that hits him every time he sees George at family dinners and knows that Fred won't be loping in a half step behind.

"You don't look good," Molly clucks. "I don't think you should try leaving today. Do you have anywhere to go? Surely you're not going back to that drafty old house of Sirius'."

A shudder ripples through Harry. No way is he going back to Grimmauld Place. 

"Are you moving to Hogsmeade?" Hermione asks, interrupting the conversation. "Professor McGonagall sent out owls last week asking for volunteers to help with the rebuilding. Maybe we can find something big enough for the three of us."

"Actually," he says, swallowing back the urge to snap, "I've got a small flat in Muggle London, near the Ministry. I'll be starting Auror training in a couple of weeks."

"Oh. I just thought…" Hermione looks between Harry and Ron and Ginny. "I thought we'd all be going back for one more year. Ron?"

"Only Harry was invited to the early entry. Kingsley figured Harry'd be harassed at Hogwarts and all." Ron drops down in the chair beside Hermione. "Makes sense to me. He can't even go to Diagon without having people crowding him out, yeah?"

"But the professors would be there, and all the Gryffindors. Nothing would happen," Ginny says. The look she gives Harry is filled with hurt and disappointment. "I don't see why you just won't come back like everyone else."

Harry steps away from the table. This is exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. "Look, I'm not going back to Hogwarts and," turning towards Molly, he softens his voice, "I am moving into my own place today. I've got to get connected to the Floo and everything else, so… I'll just be going now."

Ignoring the swell of demands to know exactly where he'll be living, Harry snatches up his rucksack and Apparates away.

§

Auror training leaves Harry exhausted. For the first week he manages a solid five hours of sleep a night. The deep shadows under his eyes start to fade and his brain starts working again.

He feels like he just might live despite it all.

As his energy increases, Harry pushes himself harder. Determined to make sure that next – if there ever is a next time – he can save them. The helpless and the brave, the ones who stand in the open unprotected to fight for a cause.

It leaves him even more drained, falling into sleep before he finds the wherewithal to make supper or to fire-call his friends.

The blessed peace lasts for a total of seventeen days. Watching Colin Creevey crumple to the ground beneath the onslaught of a Death Eater's wand pulls Harry awake with a scream on his lips and sweat dotting his brow.

Harry pushes the covers back and, opening a window, settles on the narrow fire escape.

The sun rises two hours later.

§

When the nightmares fight their way through the bone-deep fatigue in a constant barrage against Harry's senses, he finds Firewhisky helps.

One shot becomes two, becomes five until he's sipping his way through a pint a night.

Through trial and error, it becomes apparent that the hours of sleep he achieves are a direct correlation to the amount of Firewhisky he consumes.

It takes two pints to settle him down after they spend the day researching the rooms in the Department of Mysteries, and the better part of three pints after an afternoon spent clearing curses out of Hogwarts.

It's the first direct order Harry has thought about disobeying. If they try to send him back to Hogwarts, it's the one he will.

At least the potential for a curse backfiring kept Hermione away from him.

§

"Potter!"

Harry jerks in his seat and, canting his head, stares at Robards through bloodshot eyes. "Sir?"

Robards reaches a hand towards Harry, arching a brow when Harry pulls away from the touch. "You've been looking off for the past fortnight. Are you ill?"

"No, sir," Harry replies, wincing. He must look worse than he realised.

Leaning in, Robards sniffs. "Are you drunk?"

"I had a few last night with friends, sir." If you can call three in the morning last night, and friends being all of those he couldn't – _failed to_ – save.

Snorting, Robards says, "I remember those days. Before things like a wife and kids." He rummages through his desk and, nodding once, sets a potions phial on the desk in front of Harry. "Pepperup. A temporary fix to clear the cobwebs out."

Harry quaffs the potion in one, fast swallow. After the smoke clears, he drops the empty phial into Robards hand and says, "Thanks."

"Just save your drinking for your days off."

He murmurs, "Of course, sir," but mentally adds a supply of Pepperup potion to his weekly shopping list.

§

The Pepperup potions squash Harry's desire to eat breakfast, and supper becomes finding the bottom of his Firewhisky bottle. Lunch is the only meal he can force himself to eat and that's only when he's under the watchful eye of his partner.

He loses a half-stone before he gives into the need to buy new trousers.

And almost another half by the time the first quarterly physical rolls around. The mediwitch tsks at him and tells him he's dangerously near to falling below the minimum weight requirements for the Auror corps.

Harry adds a nutrient potion to his daily regime. It's as close to actually eating as he can get.

§

Four months into training they pair the cadets up with an experienced Auror, a mentor.

Not having Tonks in the line-up has Harry running for the toilet, his stomach rolling and clenching as he retches up hours old Firewhisky. Dragging his arm across his mouth, Harry offers a silent apology to Teddy. 

He knows the misery of not having parents and yet he still let it happen to his godson.

Losing Tonks and Remus is the biggest of his failures.

Harry chooses the one Auror he doesn't know – Ralph Adams – as his partner.

§

"Merlin's beard, Potter!" Robards leans in and spittle hits Harry's cheek. "What were you thinking?"

Harry bites back the first answer – _that I'm not going to let anyone else die_ – and says, "I wasn't, sir."

"That much is obvious." Stepping back, Robards shakes his head. "You have to analyze the situation. Drawing your wand should be your last resort, especially when in a public place."

Except, Harry thinks, not reacting fast enough, well enough, cost him Sirius.

"I worked with your father during the first war. He was arrogant and believed himself above petty things like protocol. Apparently it is a trait you share with him." Robards waggles a finger at Harry. "That type of reckless behavior is what gets people killed."

Swallowing, Harry averts his eyes. He knows all about getting people killed.

"You got lucky this time, Potter, and no one got hurt. But what about next time?" Robards' sneer is nowhere near as intimidating as Snape's used to be. "Luck might've worked with Voldemort, but my unit runs by the book, and luck? Is not a factor at all."

It takes all Harry has not to snort. Luck. Right.

"There is such a thing as moderation. Learn that or, so help me, I'll see you riding a desk and shuffling papers for your entire career." Robards leans into Harry's space again. His breath, coloured with the taint of onions, fills Harry's nostrils. "Are we clear, Potter?"

"We are, sir," Harry replies.

"Go home and think about what happened out there today." Robards walks around his desk and drops into his chair. "And leave the arrogance at the door on Monday."

Harry nods once and retreats, his mind replaying the one thing that he heard loud and clear: reckless behavior is what gets people killed.

He vows that he won't be that person again. Not ever.

§

Harry doesn't dream of death. Instead it's Snape glaring down his nose and mocking Harry.

Reminding Harry he's always thought him to be arrogant. That had Harry listened a little more, maybe tried a bit harder, the war wouldn't have taken so many lives.

Telling Harry the only reason he's even in the Auror corps is because he's the famous Boy Who Lived. That it's his fame, not his ability that bought him the position. That Harry isn't worthy to breathe the same air as the real Aurors, much less serve with them.

Calling Harry a coward.

Harry wakes up panting, the sound of Snape's contempt ringing in his ears. Blindly he reaches out, fumbling across his night table until his hand connects with the Firewhisky bottle. Tipping it to his lips, he drains the last three shots in one pull.

§

The day he watches a curse burn through Adams' shield, landing the old Auror in St. Mungo's spell damage ward, Harry has Firewhisky for lunch. And supper.

He's awake by midnight, terror clawing its way up his throat. Grabbing the bottle of Firewhisky, he heads out to his fire escape.

Harry hasn't missed the sunrise in months.

§

Harry notices the tremor in his wand hand six months into Auror training. He blames it on the cold February day.

§

The air fills with the crack of multiple Apparitions. Healers move around Harry, some filtering into the abandoned house and others around the outside. They're all moving too slow for his peace of mind.

He wants to scream at them to hurry up. Wants to tell them that Dawlish is in the house bleeding out and Adams is around back and missing his left arm, that some kid he's never seen before is dead and another one took a header off of the back stairs.

All he manages is a stilted grunt _whinge_ moan. 

A Healer pushes a small coin into Harry's hand. Between one breath and the next, he disappears, riding the pull and swirl of the Portkey to St. Mungo's crisis ward. 

Looking at his watch, Harry realises less than three minutes has passed since he sent out the emergency Patronus.

He finds that to be unbelievable.

§

Harry drains his last bottle of Firewhisky and still sleep dances outside of his grasp.

Licking his lips, he opens the top drawer of his bedside table and takes out the phial of Sleeping Draught. He turns the phial over in his hands once, then once again.

"What's the worse that can happen?" he murmurs. "I don't wake up at all?"

And if he doesn't wake up, would it matter? At least there would be no more blood on his hands.

Pushing his thumb against the stopper, Harry chugs the potion in one long, continuous swallow.

§

Harry doesn't move when his alarm goes off.

§

The strong scent of disinfectant fills Harry's nostrils and the taste of vomit is coating his tongue. He vaguely remembers the sound of a deep, booming voice and flashes of lime green robes and a series of whispered – _shouted_ – spells.

And retching. He remembers great heaving waves of retching that had his eyes tearing up as vomit and spittle came out his mouth and nose.

"Open your eyes, Mister Potter. We know you are awake." 

The voice is unfamiliar; the tone is one he heard from Madam Pomfrey more than once. Reacting on instinct, he blinks his eyes open.

His glasses are pressed into his hands and, slipping them on, the fuzzy white world comes into focus. He's in a private room at Mungo's, a Healer and a mediwitch at his bedside. 

"You were brought in over three hours ago," the Healer says. "We've purged your system of the alcohol and the potion. The two of them should have never been taken in combination." The Healer gives Harry a pointed stare. "Facts I believe you were well aware of." 

He knew. He just didn't care. Harry blinks at the Healer, keeping his words to himself.

"You have well-connected, caring friends, Mister Potter." Heading to the door, the Healer looks over his shoulder. "The Minister has asked to be informed of your status. I'm going to Floo him now and let him know you are awake."

Apparently the voice he recalls belonged to Kingsley. He idly wonders how much Kingsley knows, if he saw the waste bin full of empty potion phials and Firewhisky bottles.

And if it's enough for Kingsley to forget about Harry being the Boy Who Lived and push his arse out of Auror training.

He really hopes it is.

§

"What were you thinking, Harry?"

That the Ides of March was a good day to die. Instead of answering, Harry looks away, focuses on the wall behind Kingsley.

Kingsley drags a chair close to Harry's bedside, and drops down into it with a grunt. "I found you face down in a puddle of your own vomit."

Harry closes his eyes, shame and embarrassment crashing over him. He hadn't thought about what someone else might find. 

"If I hadn't come over when you missed morning roll call, you'd be dead."

Opening his eyes, Harry looks at Kingsley and, just as quickly, looks away again. It takes all he has to not tell Kingsley he should have left him right where he found him.

Pitching his body forward, Kingsley leans into Harry's personal space. Harry pulls back but has nowhere to go, trapped between the soft mattress and the heavy weight of Kingsley's displeasure.

"Is that what you wanted?" Kingsley cants his head to the side. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

Harry wants to look away again, but can't. 

"Answer me!" 

The shouted words, a direct contrast to Kingsley previous tone, startle Harry into answering. "Yes!"

Kingsley quickly draws his body back, like Harry's words were a physical attack. "Why?"

"Because I can't get anything right." Harry's entire body sags against the bed. He blinks back the tears smarting in his eyes and, huffing a disdainful laugh, says, "I can't even kill myself properly."

Tugging the sheet over his shoulders, Harry rolls to his side. "Turn the lights off when you leave."

"Harry…"

"Please."

"For now," Kingsley murmurs.

The sound of Kingsley's footfalls echo in the silence. And finally Harry is left alone in the darkness.

§

When Kingsley returns the first night, Harry locks the door to keep Kingsley out.

Three days later, Ron and Hermione receive the same treatment.

He hasn't uttered a word since he told Kingsley to leave.

§

Harry's world shrinks to those he can't avoid: the Healer, the mediwitch, and the therapist.

§

"Mister Potter. Harry," Jules, the head doctor working his case, says. "You can't begin to heal as long as you refuse to talk to me."

 _About what?_ Harry wants to ask. _The war that you avoided by running to France?_

"You can't stay here indefinitely." Jules isn't looking at Harry. He rarely looks _at_ Harry. "If you were anyone else, you would have been released days ago."

Wanting to be _anyone else_ , Harry signs himself out and leaves St. Mungo's.

§

Harry doesn't notice that the wards on his flat have been changed. Not until Kingsley arrives five minutes after he does.

The fresh bottle of Firewhisky in his grip is banished seconds later.

The potions – Sleeping Draught, Pepperup, and a deep green poison sure to kill Harry if he actually finds the balls to take it – disappear right after.

Kingsley looks at Harry and says, "Me or Mrs. Weasley, your choice. Either way, you're not going to be left alone."

Turning on his heel, Harry stomps into the bedroom and slams the door.

He thinks he can learn to hate Kingsley.

§

Two in the morning finds Harry on his fire escape. He'd lurched out of sleep, chased awake by Adams and his bloody stump.

Minutes later, Kingsley sits down beside Harry and pushes a mug of hot tea into Harry's hands.

"Drink it," he says. "The Calming Draught will do you good."

Harry shoots a glare at Kingsley.

"I won't let you drug yourself to death, Harry." Kingsley looks out into the dark sky. "But I do know when a Calming Draught is called for."

A half hour ticks off in silence.

"I watched a Death Eater kill a girl. She couldn't have been more than twelve. I dreamt about her for months." Kingsley stares into his empty mug. "In every single one of them she was asking me why didn't I save her."

Kingsley pushes to a stand and, squeezing Harry's shoulder with one hand, says, "You're not the first one to fight your ghosts in your dreams. When you're ready to talk about it, I'll be here."

Without another word, Kingsley ducks his head and goes back into Harry's flat.

Harry watches the sunrise alone.

§

On the third night that Kingsley brings Harry tea, sitting quietly beside him until Harry stops shaking, Harry starts believing that Kingsley really isn't going anywhere.

He wants to yell at him to get out, to leave him alone in his misery.

And he wants to say thank you, to tell him that he appreciates not being left alone. 

He wants to say all of that.

But the words get lodged in his throat.

§

"I'll be back for lunch." Kingsley looks down at his watch. "If every Monday didn't have back-to-back meetings scheduled, I'd have taken the day off."

"I don't…" Harry's voice is raspy, rusty from disuse. He swallows and tries again. "I don't need a keeper."

"No, you don't," Kingsley agrees. "But you can use a friend."

Harry arches a brow. He'd have never thought to claim Kingsley as a friend. "You sleep on all of your friends' couches?"

"When they need me to."

"I won't…" Harry lets the words fade. 

Understanding flitters through Kingsley's eyes. "You might."

Humiliation tingles along Harry's spine. Kingsley is right. He might try to kill himself again.

He might even succeed the second time.

Nodding, Harry says, "See you at lunch."

§

As soon as Kingsley leaves for work, Harry wards the Floo against all connections except those originating from the Ministry.

He's tired of hearing the pity in Hermione and Ron's voice, and the concern in Mrs. Weasley's.

If they all want to talk about him, they can do it through someone else's Floo.

§

The days fall into a routine.

Kingsley goes to the Ministry. Harry watches him leave.

Kingsley comes back for lunch. Harry forces himself to eat.

Kingsley sleeps on the couch. Harry screams himself awake. 

Kingsley makes tea. Harry watches the sunrise.

Routine is keeping Harry alive and at least halfway sane.

He hates routine.

§

Harry longs for the taste of Firewhisky.

§

"Snape?"

Taking the tea, Harry nods. 

"Heard you call out his name before you woke up." Kingsley leans back against the roughened brick and snorts. "He was a right surly bastard."

The comment, true as it is, makes Harry frown.

"Brave. Willing to do what very few were. But still mean as a den full of pit vipers." Kingsley nudges Harry's shoulder. "You were one his favourite targets, yeah?"

Swallowing, Harry whispers, "Yeah. From day one."

"And, dead and gone, he's still terrorizing you. Attacking while you're asleep."

"If I had…" Harry stops, the thought skittering completely away.

"Had what, Harry?" 

"I couldn't save him."

"No one would have been able to save him." Kingsley takes the empty mug from Harry's hand. "Not with the role he chose to cast himself in. You need to remember that. _He_ decided his part knowing full well that it was extremely unlikely that he'd survive. At any time he could've gone into hiding, left for places warmer than here. He _chose_ to stay."

The words make sense to his brain. It's his heart that Harry can’t make believe them. "But…"

"Trelawney's mad uttering saddled you with Voldemort," Kingsley says, cutting Harry off. "Not Snape."

Harry's lips twitch. It's the first time he's been tempted to smile since leaving the Burrow.

Saddled with Voldemort, indeed.

§

"You don't have to keep staying here."

"Trying to get rid of me, Harry?"

Harry picks at a fraying spot on his denims. "It's been a month. Surely you had a life before I…" 

The words _tried to off myself_ hang in the air.

Kingsley glances around the small flat, sweeps a head-to-toe look over Harry. "Unless you're kicking me out, I'm good with the arrangement we have right now."

Trying to hide the relief that rushes through him, Harry stammers, "Yeah, um, okay. That's fine."

§

While Kingsley's at work, Harry makes a trip into Muggle London.

It's time for him to find a therapist. If Kingsley's willing to live with him to help him, it's time for Harry to start helping himself.

He settles on Doctor Montgomery, an older Muggle with kind eyes and a history of military service.

§

The nightmares still come every night.

Snape hasn't appeared in any of them.

§

The first night Kingsley has to work late, Harry goes to the nearest Muggle liquor store and buys a bottle of scotch.

It's sitting unopened on the coffee table when Kingsley steps out of the Floo three hours later.

Kingsley looks from the bottle to Harry and back to the bottle again. "That the only one you bought?"

Licking his lips, Harry nods. "Yeah."

Picking up the bottle, Kingsley hands it to Harry. "Go pour it down the toilet."

Harry replays the words in his head. They don't make any more sense the second time around. "Huh?"

"The toilet," Kingsley says. "Pour all of the scotch into the toilet and flush it."

When the scotch is gone and Harry is slumped into an armchair, Kingsley says, "Next time you want to spend money and have nothing to show for it, donate it to the spell damage research fund."

Next time, Harry thinks, he'll just drink the damn scotch before Kingsley gets home.

§

"The hardest thing for me was being around people like me, the people who survived but had scars, real ones, to show for it." Doctor Montgomery takes a sip of his coffee. "Outside of your roommate, when's the last time you saw someone you went into battle with?"

Harry shrugs and looks away. Staring into the fireplace, he says, "Not all injuries came from the war."

§

Ten weeks after Kingsley moves in, Harry asks about Adams and Dawlish.

"Been wondering when you'd be ready to talk about them." 

Kingsley sets a plate in front of Harry. The smell of the hamburger has Harry's stomach gurgling. It's been so long since he's truly been hungry, the sound shocks him.

"Dawlish is back on active duty and Adams has moved into management." Kingsley picks up his water and drains half of the glass. "Both of them credit their surviving to how fast you requested medical."

Harry chokes on his hamburger. "If I had pulled my wand instead of standing there like an idiot, they might not have needed medical."

"True," Kingsley says. "Or all three of you could be dead."

There's nothing Harry can say to that. Even if he does think it's a load of absolute crap.

§

"Hogwarts classes ended today."

Harry grunts in reply. What should he care that Hogwarts is out of session?

"When do you plan on seeing your friends again?"

Looking up, Harry says, "I see you everyday."

Kingsley snorts softly. "Let me try this a different way. Tomorrow night we're going to the Burrow for supper."

"I don't…"

Holding up a hand, Kingsley says, "I'm not suggesting we go to the Leaky for lunch. You know the surroundings, know everyone who'll be there."

Which is exactly why he doesn't want to go there.

"They miss you."

"I miss me too." The words spill out before Harry can stop them. 

"Hey," Kingsley says, tapping Harry's thigh. "We'll get there."

And if he does _get there_ , Kingsley will leave.

That's a thought Harry doesn't want to entertain. 

He doesn't want to think about why thinking about Kingsley leaving bothers him so much either.

§

The Burrow is overwhelming. Pity is the predominate emotion etched into everyone's face.

Harry wants to run five minutes into the family supper.

He shies away from all of the touches, winces when the noise level rises. He's accustomed to his tiny little flat and the quiet conversations between him and Kingsley.

The fourth time Hermione tries to pull him away for a chat, Harry inches close enough to Kingsley to feel the heat of his body.

Kingsley settles a large hand in the center of Harry's back and whispers, "A little longer?" 

Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Just a bit."

With Kingsley standing at his side, Harry lasts for close to another hour.

§

"I went to a friend's house for supper, they're kind of like my adopted family."

Doctor Montgomery smiles. "And how'd that go?"

Grimacing, Harry says, "Could've been better."

"At least you went, Harry," the doctor replies. "It's a step."

Baby steps, Harry thinks. He's taking nothing but baby steps.

§

Harry officially resigns from Auror training on his nineteenth birthday.

When Kingsley quirks an eyebrow, he shrugs and says, "Maybe I'll try again later."

"And maybe you'll find something that suits better," Kingsley replies.

Harry can't imagine what that would be. Being an Auror, a Dark wizard catcher, is what he was born to be. He tells Kingsley as much.

"No," Kingsley rebuts. "Your shoulders were weighted with a prophecy. One that you fulfilled before you turned eighteen. I'm thinking the rest of your life is yours."

On his fire escape, when he's trying to push the image of Tonks broken and bloody and _dead_ out of his mind, Harry makes a list of things he might like to do. 

Dark wizard catcher doesn't make the top twenty-five.

§

Harry still longs for the taste of Firewhisky.

§

Insistent banging rouses Harry from a light doze. Dragging a hand through his hair, he opens the door with a mumbled, "What?" and then, "Oh, Hermione."

"Were you asleep?" Hermione asks, pushing her way past Harry and into the flat. "That's part of your problem. You should stay up during the day so you'll be more apt to sleep through the night."

Closing the door, Harry blinks. And blinks again. "My problem?"

"Yes." Hermione dumps her satchel, overflowing with books, onto the coffee table. Harry doesn't know how he missed it when she barged by him. "I've been doing some reading –" 

"Not surprising," Harry mutters. 

" _And_ ," Hermione says, glaring. "While I'm sure you've been dealing with some real emotions, you're also doing things to make the problems worse."

Rolling his eyes, Harry heads towards the kitchen. He needs some tea to chase the sleep away.

"Sleeping in the middle of the day, not having a schedule." Hermione dogs Harry's steps, following him into the kitchen and, after he sets the water to boiling, down the hallway towards the bathroom. "Being at loose ends just gives you more time to dwell on the problems."

Harry holds up a hand. "Need to pee, Hermione, and I can manage it by myself."

She talks right over the sound of Harry taking a leak, and washing his hands. She barely takes a breath when Harry opens the bathroom door and starts retracing his steps back to the kitchen.

"The worse thing you could've done is quit Auror training. I don't know what Kingsley was thinking, letting you get away with that." 

"Hermione," Harry says, flinty anger slipping into his tone. "Don't go there."

Kingsley, as far as Harry is concerned, is off limits. It's Kingsley who has been here, day in and day out, talking Harry through the nightmares, keeping him away from the liquor bottle. 

"Well," Hermione huffs. "He should've known better. It's as if he _likes_ the fact that you're broken…"

"Get out!" Harry shouts, his magic swelling up and rolling off of him in waves. 

Eyes widening a fraction, Hermione says, "Maybe that wasn't the proper word for it…" 

"Don't make me throw you out, Hermione," Harry grits out. "Leave. Now."

"You can't be serious!"

Harry picks up Hermione's satchel and chucks it into the hallway. Looking at Hermione, Harry motions to the door. "Now, or you're next."

As soon as she crosses the threshold, he slams the door hard enough to splinter the doorjamb.

§

Harry ignores his owl order from Flourish and Blotts – _The Art of Pensieve Making_ – in favour of a bottle of Muggle scotch.

§

Three sheets to the wind, Harry looks up when Kingsley steps out of the Floo.

"Harry?" Kingsley sets his briefcase on the floor and starts unbuttoning his robe. "What's going on?"

Bottle in a loose grip, Harry says, "I'm broken. D'ya know that?

Sitting down beside Harry, Kingsley takes the bottle of scotch away. "You're not broken."

"Sure I am." Harry makes a clumsy reach for the scotch. "Been tryin' to be normal. Tryin' so hard. Talkin' about the nightmares, tryin' not to want Firewhisky, been talking to a Muggle head doctor."

"I know."

Frowning, Harry shakes his head. "That was a secret."

"And I let you keep it." Kingsley bumps his shoulder against Harry's. "I'm proud of you."

"But… I'm still broken."

"I think you've been doing great, Harry."

Harry tries to focus on Kingsley. "Are you just tryin' to fix me too?"

"Too?" Kingsley arches a brow. "Did someone come over today?"

"Yeah, Hermione did. Had all these books with her, said you liked me broken." Harry looks down at his hands. "S'not true is it?"

"You're not broken, a fact I will be pointing out to Miss Granger tomorrow. You're battered and bruised and hurting." Kingsley wraps an arm around Harry's shoulders, tugs until Harry is curled into his side. "And, for the record, I like _you_ , no matter what's going on."

"Even if I am broken?"

"Even if you _were_ broken."

§

Head banging with a hangover, Harry grabs his book on Pensieve making and retreats to his fire escape.

When Hermione – and then Hermione and Ron – start banging on his door, he ignores it.

Harry is sober when Kingsley steps through the Floo after work.

§

"I survived." Harry paces around Doctor Montgomery's office. "Why did I survive when they didn't?"

"Skill, luck. Some might even say magic." Andrew Montgomery looks at Harry through wire-rimmed glasses. "Take your pick, Harry. The how and why isn't important. All that matters is that you _did_ survive."

Looking out of the window, Harry whispers, "I didn't want to survive."

"But do you now?"

Slowly Harry nods his head. "Yeah, I think I do."

"And so you shall."

Chuckling, Harry says, "I don't know. 'M pretty sure Kingsley wanted to kill me the other night."

"Really?" The doctor's lips quirk into a grin. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"Well, I kind of set the kitchen on fire…"

§

The first Pensieve Harry tries to make shatters, littering his face and arms with shards of glass.

Digging the tiny pieces out, Kingsley chuckles and says, "Maybe putting up a shield would be wise."

Harry flips him off. Then starts chuckling right along with Kingsley.

§

"Magic," Harry says. "Magic saved me. Mum's. Dumbledore's. The magic of the Hallows."

Kingsley snorts. "What about your skill? That had to have had something to do with it." 

"My own dumb luck," Harry says. He's been thinking about this since his meeting with Doctor Montgomery. "Oh, did I tell you, doc is dropping my visits back from twice a week to one. He thinks I'm ready."

"Your nightmares…" Concern flitters across Kingsley's brow. If anyone knows about Harry's nightmares, it's the man Harry wakes up when he's screaming down the house.

"Are still there," Harry says. "But I'm dealing with them better now. They might not ever go away completely."

"Well done, Mister Potter."

Warmth spreads through Harry with the praise.

§

Harry watches Ron take the oath for the Auror corps.

He has no desire to restart his training, but he does go to the celebration at the Burrow. Alone.

Kingsley is waiting for him when he tumbles out of the Floo, a smile on his face and supper on the table.

§

Erecting his personal shield, Harry casts the spells to etch the runes into the Pensieve. The earthenware bowl shimmers under the onslaught of magic, but doesn't shatter.

The first memory Harry puts into it is of Dumbledore tumbling off of the Astronomy tower.

§

"I have a godson. His name is Teddy." Harry has no idea why he just blurted _that_ to his therapist.

"When's the last time you saw Teddy?"

Before his parents died, Harry thinks. What he says is, "Months. A lot of months."

"Then I think your homework should be getting in touch with Teddy."

Harry groans, but nods his head. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

§

Harry spends the day at Andromeda's playing with Teddy, and the evening taking him trick-or-treating.

That night, when Remus and Tonks come to his dreams, they smile and give Harry a nod.

Harry sleeps through the sunrise.

§

Harry sleeps through the sunrise more than he doesn't.

His longest streak is seventeen days.

§

Harry dreams about Kingsley.

The only nightmarish thing about it is he wakes up before he gets off.

§

Harry plans to spend Christmas Eve with Teddy and Boxing Day with the Weasleys. He assumes he'll spend Christmas day alone while Kingsley attends to Ministry duties.

His assumptions are wrong.

He wakes up Christmas morning to find Kingsley standing in front of a ridiculously large tree, a string of fairy lights twisted around his ankles.

A bubble of laughter bursts out of him. "What is this?"

"A tree," Kingsley replies. "Surely you've seen them before."

Harry sticks his tongue out in retaliation.

"Get over here and help me with these lights, Harry."

Leaning against his bedroom door, Harry says, "What's in it for me if I do?"

"Hot chocolate," Kingsley replies. "Soon as we get this beast decorated, there'll be hot chocolate."

Turns out there're presents too.

§

Doctor Montgomery drops Harry's visits down to once every two weeks.

Harry and Kingsley celebrate with supper at the Three Broomsticks.

Afterward, Harry stares at the castle in the distance. He's not ready to go back there, but it's not as scary a thought as it once was.

§

Setting his sparkling cider to the side, Harry watches the clock move towards midnight. As the clock chimes the hour, he leans in and busses his lips against Kingsley's.

Kingsley doesn't return the kiss, but he does wrap an arm around Harry's shoulders and pull him in for a hug, murmuring, "Happy New Year to you too, Harry."

§

"I don't want you to leave." Harry glares at the packed bag by the Floo. If he'd known kissing Kingsley was going to make the man leave, he'd have kept it to himself.

Smirking, Kingsley says, "Yeah, you really do."

Harry frowns. He's pretty sure he doesn't.

"Because, you see," Kingsley says, "it's only after I leave that you'll truly be standing on your own. _And_ , it's only once you are on your own that I'll ask you out."

The heat of a blush races up Harry's neck. "Okay, maybe I do want you to leave."

Kingsley presses a kiss to Harry's forehead and whispers, "You'll be fine."

Harry's not as confident as Kingsley. He just nods and steps back, watching as Kingsley disappears in a rush of green flames.

§

His first night alone, Harry's afraid to go to sleep.

He falls asleep on the couch, a book about wandlore open in his lap.

A full week passes before Harry sleeps in his bed again.

§

His first night back in his bed, Harry dreams about Colin Creevey. He wakes up thrashing against the covers.

Using the meditation tricks Doctor Montgomery taught him, he calms down and drifts back to sleep.

He wakes up long after the sun is in the sky.

§

Days slip by without Harry waking up from a nightmare.

§

Turning off the alarm, Harry wraps his blanket around his shoulders and heads to the fire escape. As the sky comes to life with orange and yellow, his lips quirk into a grin.

He's missed watching the sunrise.

_We can only appreciate the miracle of a sunrise if we have waited in the darkness. ~Author Unknown_


End file.
